"You're easily satisfied."
"Perhaps not so easily as I seem," he whispered, leaning a little forward in his place. "If only I were sure that you were not in love with Jocelyn Thew!"
"If you think that I am," she observed, "why are you always slinging that
Beverley girl at me?"
"Perhaps," he said coolly, "to make you jealous. All's fair in love and war, you know."
"I see. Then what you really want is to make love to me yourself? I'm sitting here and taking notice. Go right ahead."
Crawshay let himself go for a few moments, and his companion listened to him approvingly.
"It sounds quite like the real thing," she sighed, "but I never trust you Englishmen. You seem to acquire the habit of talking love to us girls just as easily as you drink a cocktail. You know that if I were to put my little hand in yours this moment across the table, you wouldn't know what to do with it."
"Try me," Crawshay begged.
She held it out—a long, rather thin, capable woman's hand, manicured a few hours ago in the latest fashion, but ringless. Crawshay promptly raised it to his lips. She snatched it away, half amused, half vexed, and glanced furtively around.
"If you did that in an American restaurant," she told him, "you'd stand some chance of getting yourself laughed at."